Oh, Zazu, do lighten up. Sing something with a little bounce in it.

Moving is scarring. Blinded by both sweat and repulsion at being so sweaty, I ran directly into a tree branch and acquired a big cut across my eye, which looks an awful lot like this:

I also have big mounds at my elbows where mosquitoes have been snacking, and bruises along my legs from heavy boxes being jostled around.

Last night, when we turned on the oven for the first time, smoke started rising out of the stovetop. I started running in circles and jamming various items in front of the front door to keep the door open while balancing my phone on my shoulder; Paul, in despair at the thought of the sprinkler system letting loose over his new television, attempted to stand on a cardboard box to destroy the fire detector. The cardboard box didn’t hold. A maintenance man came by and said the smoke was simply cleaning fluids burning off the stovetop. The three of us stood and watched for five minutes as the chemicals burned off, and the man said y’all numerous times.

But back to the boxes: out of the boxes came futon parts, and three hours later a futon was fully assembled; I have no clue how that happened — I just grabbed the boxes as they emptied and dragged them out to the compactor.